


How Far?

by TheBritishBourbon



Series: How Long Universe [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Mentions of past abuse, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: Two months on from the events of 'How Long?' and our protagonists face further trials and tribulations as Janine Moriarty plans a revenge they cannot escape.





	1. Prologue: Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to the sequel of 'How Long?'! Finally! 
> 
> This is a very short prologue, basically just hinting at the events that will happen! I have most of the story planned out, I'm really looking forward to getting it to you guys! i've only got 2 more exams (haha, 'only', right) and then I'm on summer break!!! so there will be lots of time for writing then! 
> 
> Also, if you missed it, i did post a little oneshot yesterday which acts as an interlude between the last story and this one, so be sure to check that out! 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this small prologue and i will see you soon for the proper, full-length chapters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the sequel of 'How Long?'! Finally!
> 
> This is a very short prologue, basically just hinting at the events that will happen! I have most of the story planned out, I'm really looking forward to getting it to you guys! i've only got 2 more exams (haha, 'only', right) and then I'm on summer break! so there will be lots of time for writing then!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this small prologue and i will see you soon for the proper, full-length chapters!

_Monday Evening, nearing midnight_

Heavy footsteps echo off the concrete walls and the low whistle of a man’s voice amplifies through the basement corridor. The prisoner’s head shoots up as she realises that the time has come, and she positions herself just so, ready for the guard’s entrance.

He is young, and she feels a little guilt for what she is about to do, but she has to admit that the shock on the man’s face when he sees her ‘hanging’ from the cell’s barred window is rather amusing. Eyes slitted so she appears to be unconscious, the prisoner waits until the man is attempting to pull her down before delivering a sharp kick to his abdomen, and then a punch to his temple. She grabs the man’s jacket to stop him from falling to the floor and exposing them to the CCTV camera which is above them. The prisoner simply unwinds the noose from her neck and unties the pressure point that had prevented her actually hanging herself one handed, before letting herself drop to the floor, still holding the now unconscious guard. Making sure she stays in the corner, away from the camera’s glare, she hastily strips the guard before sliding his body against the wall where it rests, slumped. No time to undress herself, she simply slips the slightly baggy uniform over her prison garbs and grabs the guard’s identity card, slipping through the open door.

As she slinks away, face hidden in the near-darkness of the corridor, Janine Moriarty wonders if escaping from the grasp Mycroft Holmes really has been _this_ easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James Moriarty may be dead but Janine certainly isn't!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! See you soon!


	2. The Grace Period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! so if you haven't noticed i added a time stamp to the prologue, so we will be going a little back in time for most of this chapter. this is really a kinda set up chapter, just seeing where our protagonists are, and also our antagonist....  
> hope you enjoy, it feels good to be back!  
> TW: see tags

**_Monday afternoon_ **

John squints and raises a hand to protect his eyes from the burning bright sunlight as he steps out into their back garden.

“Sherlock?” He calls, listening for the sound of his partner. All he can hear is the sea, whipping up against the rocks and then lazily falling back down into the rhythm of its current once more. A seagull calls above him, and John sighs and heads out into the heat.

Their garden is a haven for flowers, it seems, now that they are deep into summer. Lavender, hollyhocks, other flowers John does not know the names of. Sherlock surely does; he spends enough time out here.

The garden is walled, a slate construction that reaches John’s chest, and has ample moss and various other greenery growing out of it, which all comes together to give the garden a very natural, rugged, yet undeniably beautiful look. The wall splits the garden into two, with the upper garden the nearest to their cottage, and the lower garden nearer to the coast, outlooking the sea; Sherlock and John have spent many a dinner making use of the table and chairs out in the lower garden, dining as they watch the sunset.

Sherlock is not in the front garden, which consists of a lush lawn with flowerbeds lining the edges, and so John makes the short walk through to the lower garden. High bushes and a single elm tree obscure his view, and so it isn’t until he passes through the hole in the slate wall that he spots Sherlock. He is curled up, knees to his chest, over-grown curls falling over his face and completely obscuring his face, and hands cupping a book. No doubt the latest book on Monet John had had Mycroft buy his brother, Sherlock having completely devoured those gifted by Mrs Hudson not even a month into their retreat in Cornwall.

John smiles and approaches slowly, not wanting to startle the other man. Sherlock gets so engrossed in his books that he does not move for hours at a time when he is reading. Frankly it alarms John sometimes, and he is glad Sherlock is now sitting in the shade, instead of the blazing sun. Sherlock jumps and looks up as John accidently steps on a twig, snapping it. He relaxes the moment he sees it is John.

“I wondered where you’d got to.” John says, coming to sit down next to Sherlock. The shade of the bench is cooling and John rolls up the sleeves of his button-down shirt.

“It was far too quiet inside.” Sherlock says, placing a marker in the book and closing it. “I like it out here, with the sound of the sea as a constant noise.”

John nods and straightens his spine. He tunes his ears back in to intentionally hearing the waves down below. He has become so used to the noise his brain blots it out. “Just wanted to check you’re still up for tomorrow?”

Sherlock emits a put-upon sigh and rolls his head around to look at John. “Yes, John.”

John smirks at Sherlock’s exaggerated annoyance. “Good. I just wanted to give your parents the go-ahead before they started the drive down here; it’ll take them a few hours.”

Sherlock begins to fiddle with the sleeve of his grey shirt, the annoyance he has just shown now completely gone. “John...Mycroft warned them not to expect…much, didn’t he?”

John pauses, thinking carefully what to say. “…I don’t think they need to be _warned_ about you, Sherlock. I think that they are your parents, and probably know you better than you think you do.”

Sherlock huffs. “That won’t stop mummy from fussing.” He glances to John and then looks down at the book in his hands, one finger running up and down the spine. The movement makes a shudder run down John’s spine as he remembers the beginnings of all this mess, and how Sherlock had taken such comfort in a book before. “John…I’m worried that they might say something, or something will happen that will trigger a…. memory, and that I won’t be able to deal with it, and everything will fall apart.”

John thinks for a while, again, before replying, and gently rests his hand over Sherlock’s, stilling the man’s movements. “I know how this must feel. That you’re standing on the top of a cliff and any moment the ground under your feet might crumble and you’ll fall, but you’ve been doing so well for so long now. You’re having flashbacks less frequently, and even when you do you cope extremely well. I know you Sherlock, I know you don’t like that you won’t be able to control the entire situation and everyone’s actions, but I’m sure your parents, who birthed two geniuses, will be intelligent enough to not do anything stupid! You don’t give your mum enough credit. She most likely will fuss, but you have agency, if you want, to ask her not to do something. She’ll understand! She probably understands more than you think.”

Sherlock still looks unsure, but John can see the tension in his shoulders has disappeared. “I just hope they’re not…disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” John asks, eyebrows raising. “Sherlock, they’ll be proud of you! They’ll see you here, alive and healing, and honestly…. I think they’ll just be happy to see their son.”

Sherlock breathes in heavily, and exhales even heavier. “Thank you…I got…too caught up in my thoughts.”

John smiles and strokes Sherlock’s hand. “You’re welcome, love.”

Sherlock looks to John, then, before folding into him and placing his head on John’s chest. John places an arm around Sherlock’s back and rests his chin on the top of Sherlock’s head. They sit in silence for a while, simply enjoying one another’s company and the delightful weather. In the distance, John can just about make out the sound of children laughing. It must be into the school holidays by now, and as such tourists have flocked to Cornwall to enjoy its beaches. They are lucky that their cottage really _is_ remote; when John has to go into the village for supplies and to pick up Sherlock’s prescription, it has been bustling, and the lovely woman from the pasty shop has had to apologise to him, more than once, when she has been out of cheese and onion pasties, which is Sherlock’s favourite.

Sherlock himself has yet to visit the village. Something which John will have to talk to him about soon enough.

For, now, though, they will sit here and enjoy the calm, and the open space, and the sound of the waves hitting the rocks.                                                                                   

* * *

 

Later, Sherlock sits in the lounge, book in hand, as he half-listens to the sounds of John fumbling around in the kitchen. The kitchen is accessed only through an archway, so if Sherlock cranes his neck he can see John at work. He sits with his back to the window, and he is enjoying the early evening light as he reads.

“Blast.” John mutters, and Sherlock glances up in amusement as he watches the other man attempt to construct a lasagne for tomorrow. Somehow, John has managed to get Bolognese on his forehead.

John had been, as ever, a conductor of light for Sherlock earlier. Not in the way he used to be, but more like a light leading Sherlock out of the darkness when it gets too hard for him to help himself. John is right, Sherlock has been getting better at managing his flashbacks, but he wonders if he is making things worse for himself by not once, in the two months they have been in Cornwall, leaving the vicinity of the cottage. He is comfortable here, he knows they are protected by Mycroft’s security team, and this space is not tainted with memories of terrible events, but perhaps it is, in a way, worse. Sherlock doesn’t want anything else, but he cannot bring himself to step outside, into the ‘real’ world. It will be, he knows, hard for him, he will have to face emotions and thoughts he doesn’t want to, and so he stays here, in isolation. He knows there is no rush to bring himself back into society, but he can see the worry in John’s eyes. Every time the man has to leave to pick something up from the village, there is always the hope in his eyes that Sherlock knows John thinks he’s hidden. Sherlock can see it, though, plain as day, and he wishes he could fulfil that hope for John, but just…. not _yet._ His parents’ visit is enough for him to cope with at the moment.  

There are some things Sherlock hides from John. Sometimes, he thinks he sees Moriarty, or Moran, lurking in a corner, and he feels bile rise in his throat, but then he remembers he has seen the proof of Moriarty’s death, the body laid out on that cold slab, and he has seen the proof of Moran’s death, too, the supernova of that explosion sometimes making it into his dreams. Like he had done in life, however, Moran leaves a stain upon Sherlock in death, too. Looking back on it now, Sherlock wonders if the reason for Moran’s haunting is, past the obvious, that Moriarty had seemed to him, at first, like an equal, a participant in a game. All that had changed, Sherlock traces the scarring around his wrist, but Moran had always been a superior figure. He was never anything else to Sherlock, and so now….it is hard for him to leave his brain.

“Sherlock! Can you help me please? You’ve got nimbler fingers than me, and I can’t make sense of these bloody pasta sheets.”

Sherlock straightens as John’s words bring him back to the present and rises slowly from the sofa. He can feel his brain wanting to see Moran stood there, in the corner, smiling savagely, but he shakes his head and joins John before it can conjure the image. This safe place will not be ruined; this is the place where Sherlock becomes better and stronger, and Moran and Moriarty have no place here. They are ghosts. That is all they will ever be to Sherlock, now.

That, at least, is what he tries to tell himself.                                                                                                     

* * *

 

**_Monday Afternoon_ **

Mycroft barely has time to put down his phone before it begins ringing. Again. He sighs and presses the ‘accept call’ button. Another day another barrage of calls, all asking him to approve the appointment of new agents filling the role of those killed by Mary Morstan a few months ago. Mycroft knows this is the direct action of Lady Smallwood, bitter at his scorning of her. He hadn’t realised that is what it had been until Gregory had told him it was so, unable to deduce her base and lustful intentions. He understands the concept of revenge, and he laments that he must now face Lady Smallwood’s.

He barely listens as the person at the other end of the phone lists off the details of another lackey, and it isn’t until the words “Agent Lark” pass the person’s lips that Mycroft’s full attention is caught.

“Wait a moment. This person is to replace Agent Lark?” He asks and reaches out to straighten one of the pens on his desk. The person on the other end of the phone confirms this to Mycroft. “Agent Lark is not dead. She is recovering from a serious wound but should not be considered void of use.”

“I’m sorry, sir, there is nothing I can do about this. I am just acting on the orders of Lady Smallwood.” The crisp voice says.

Mycroft sighs, and scribbles down the words ‘Agent Lark’ on a post-it-note, applying the adhesive side to his desk as a reminder to address the situation later. “Yes. I am sure you are. Continue.”

The person lists more and more names, and Mycroft nods and hums and plays to the tune of boring, repetitive government business. He looks up as the door to his office clicks open, and Greg’s smiling yet haggard face peers through. Mycroft gestures he come in.

“Apologies, I must go now.” He says into the phone. The person on the other begins spluttering their protest but Mycroft puts down the receiver anyway, rolling his eyes.

“Fun business?” Greg asks, holding out a takeaway coffee cup to Mycroft. Hmm, bought not ten minutes ago, still sufficiently hot going by the red mark on Gregory’s palm, he always does forget to ask for a protective sleeve.

“Lady Smallwood insists on running every appointment past me.” Mycroft complains as Greg eases himself into the seat on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. “She is being rather unfair, I think.”

Greg chuckles. “You could say that. At least you’re not trying to hunt down a bloody druggie who once had tenuous links to one of Moriarty’s moles.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Neither are you, you are here drinking coffee with me at 2pm in the afternoon.”

Greg gives Mycroft a look of consternation. “Well, yeah, I’m not doing the actual chasing, Donovan is, but I’ve had to comb through folder after folder to find anyone who might have a connection to Moriarty, and let me tell you, there are _hundreds._ ”

“That is my worry.” Mycroft admits. “We cannot be sure how many knew about Moriarty’s plans for the complete collapse of the constitution of Great Britain. If any of them lets the smallest amount of information slip, this could be a security threat on an international level.”

“I know, Myc.” Greg says, sitting forward in his chair. “And we’re doing our best. Look, I even changed the password on my computer.” Mycroft scoffs and rolls his entire head to look at Greg with annoyance. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Mycroft flicks his eyes to meet Greg’s for just a moment before resting them on the top of his coffee cup. “Of course, don’t be obtuse. I just do not trust those Moriarty had want to mingle with. He did not care if it was the lowest or highest class of criminal, as long as they revered him. That sort of dedication to such a malicious man could perhaps delude them into thinking his ideas were perfectly formed, achievable. Moriarty might be dead but his ideas for power aren’t. They still live on in god knows how many people. It is essential we silence them.”

“And we are, we’re working on it.” Greg tries to appease, but Mycroft is gulping at his coffee with agitated abandonment.

“What will happen if my respective international professionals were to find out Great Britain was recently almost taken down by one singular man doesn’t bear thinking about. How would we look on the international stage?”

The question is rhetoric, but Greg answers it anyway. “Bloody ridiculous.”  
“ _Weak.”_ Mycroft answers, ignoring his other half. “Embarrassingly so. No, Moriarty must stay a secret.”

“And he will.” Greg reassures, once again. “Look, Myc, you’ve got the most dangerous legacy of Moriarty’s schemes locked up in one of your government buildings. There is nothing Janine Moriarty can do.”  
Mycroft sighs. “You are right.” His phone begins to ring and Mycroft lets out an even bigger sigh. “I must take this, Gregory. Thank you for the coffee.”

“I’ll see you this evening.” Greg says, getting up out of the chair, back clicking as he does. He really could do with a good, hot shower. And someone to share it with. “I’m cooking tonight, remember? Lasagne.”

Mycroft smiles, face lighting up like a child in a sweet shop, before he eventually relents and picks up the phone. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg smiles to himself as he leaves the office, closing the door behind him, careful to hold down the door handle until it is fully shut so as not to slam it. Mycroft is certainly in need of relaxing, and the way to do that is through his stomach. Greg’s own growls as he thinks of the lasagne, and stares down, forlorn, at his coffee, knowing that this will have to do him until later. He wonders how Sherlock and John are faring on their ‘holiday’. Greg is aware there is more to it than that, but now, at this moment between the comfort of his partner’s office and the return to New Scotland Yard, to stress and harsh fluorescent lighting, he is sure Cornwall must be much, much more relaxing.                                                                                          

* * *

 

“John, no, that’s not the correct ratio!” Sherlock protests, grabbing the spoon off of John and scooping some cheese sauce out of the pan and slathering it onto the pasta sheets of their lasagne. John throws his hands up in the air in defeat and steps away, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand and getting cheese sauce in his hair.

“See, this is why I wanted you to do it, you’re much better with measurements than I am.” John says, wiping his forehead with a tea towel.

“Well, yes.” Sherlock says, concentrating too much on measuring the right amount of Bolognese to be polite. John chuckles. He does not mind. In fact, it is incredibly refreshing to have Sherlock’s sarcastic side thrown at him. Sherlock does not tell John that he managed to perfect his ability to measure things by sight from the months of sitting, alone, in a dark basement with naught else to do to keep his mind off of his terrible fate. “All done.” He announces, and John peers over to see a perfectly formed lasagne, proportions equal to the nearest millimetre.

“Wonderful, thank you.” He says, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. He pulls out some tin foil and covers the dish, keeping it protected for tomorrow’s lunch. “Now, do you want to do the washing up, too?”

Sherlock makes himself scarce. “No, thank you.”

John laughs as he watches Sherlock’s curly head disappear back into the sitting room. He stuffs the lasagne into the fridge and surveys the trail of destruction that his cooking has caused. Dishes and cutlery, pots and pans, nothing, it seems, has been untouched. Well, there is only one thing for it. John begins to fill the sink with soapy water. “You’re doing the drying up.” He calls into the other room.

“Fine.” Sherlock calls back. Then, John can hear as the crackling of the radio comes on, settling down as Sherlock adjusts the station, and finally emitting the swooping notes and rhythms of the classical music radio station.

John is just finishing up washing the last of the dishes when the doorbell rings. He hastily dries his hands on a towel and pads on through to the hallway. The cottage is so small that if John were to stretch his arms out fully to the sides, he could touch each wall of the hallway with the tips of his fingers. John peers through the eyehole in the door, one hand resting on the wood, and sees the slightly distorted image of Gregson looking back at him.

“Alright John?” The other man calls.

John pulls back and opens the door, smiling at Gregson. Tobias Gregson is tall, taller than Sherlock by a couple of inches, and his broad shoulders speak of a man who works out regularly, when he can. His hair is jet black, shot only in some places with glimmers of grey. He keeps himself clean shaven, finding a beard to be irritating, and he wears contact lenses in his hazel brown eyes.  All these things Sherlock had deduced about the man upon first meeting him, but what Sherlock could not deduce was how amiable Gregson would be to the both of them.

“Hi, Toby.” John says, stepping back to let the man in. Gregson is dressed in smart-causal wear, a button down covered by a peacoat, with jeans and brown brogues, but John notices the earpiece in his ear, and the shape of a gun tucked into the front pocket of his coat. Inconspicuous enough for the public around them, but armed and ready to protect nonetheless. Gregson also carries a box bearing the words ‘Chess’ and depicting two people competing against each other over a checkerboard battlefield.

“Sherlock up for a game?” Gregson asks. He wipes his feet on the doormat but keeps his coat on, following John through into the kitchen.

“I don’t see why not. Just come off duty, have you?” John asks, as he reaches for the kettle.

“Aye.” Gregson replies. “Morgan is in charge for now, but obviously I’m still available if anything should arise, but all looks clear tonight.”

“Good.” John says, reaching for two mugs on the top shelf. He hears Sherlock’s footsteps coming through into the kitchen, and looks up as Sherlock nods at Gregson, eyes lighting up at the sight of the chessboard box.

“Alright Sherlock?” Gregson asks, deep voice booming in the cosy kitchen.

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock says. He puts down the book he was carrying under his arm onto the table. “How is your knee?”

Gregson smirks, as does John. “Not too bad today, thanks.” Gregson replies. “The cream seems to be helping.”

Sherlock hums, but doesn’t comment further. John can tell he knows Gregson is exaggerating, and that his knee is still as painful as it ever was.

“What is that smell?” Gregson asks, sniffing the air.

“Lasagne.” John answers whilst he pours boiling water into the teapot. “For tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes.” Gregson says. As head of security, he is fully aware of the plans for Sherlock’s parents’ visit tomorrow. “Any idea what time they’ll be arriving exactly?”

“I phoned earlier, they said they’re leaving at about 9am, so it should be early afternoon. About 1?” John replies. Sherlock moves over to their dining table, which looks out over the garden through two glass patio doors. He places his book on the table and sits down at the table, shoulders tense.

Gregson nods, “Wiggins and I will be on call, if needed, throughout the day.”

John nods his thanks, watching as Sherlock’s tense shoulders relax. Gregson moves over to the dining room table, sitting opposite Sherlock and placing the chess box down on the surface, opening the lid.

“Expect to lose today, Sherlock, I’ve been YouTube-ing chess techniques.” Gregson jokes, setting out the pieces on the board. Sherlock scoffs, fiddling with the white queen. John watches his nimble fingers fiddle with the piece absent-mindedly, noticing the habit with a little worry in the back of his mind. Sherlock had always been a fiddler, but the habit has increased since his return to become almost obsessive. John will keep an eye on it, but if it reduces Sherlock’s stress, and it does him no harm, John is not too concerned.

“The game is on, Tobias.” Sherlock says, and John smiles fondly as he pours the tea.

John treasures these evening, where he sits and watches Sherlock and Gregson play chess. As he carries the tea-tray over to the table, he reminds himself to cherish these moments, remembering how far they have come, and all they have been through, and where they are now.

The dishes are left to dry on the draining board that evening.                                                                                     

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, Early Morning_ **

Janine reaches for the top of the doorframe, hand fumbling for a short while until she finds what she is looking for. She pulls down the key, rusted and tarnished, but usable nonetheless. She inserts it into the key hole, and with a few twists, the lock clicks, and she enters.

The apartment she is greeted by is dank and musty, and incredibly cold. The tell-tale signs of not having been lived in for months are all there; the surfaces are coated in dust, the leather sofa and armchair covered with plastic protection, and where once there was a large television set against one wall, there are now wires dangling lifelessly, pointlessly.

The apartment itself is part of a complex developed out of an old warehouse in south-east London and had been one of the many places James had had purchased under other people’s names for their own use. This one is purchased under the name Adam Worth. Not even Mycroft Holmes could figure out exactly who Adam Worth really was, as his name had been plucked from thin air. He was a fairy-tale.

Janine closes the door behind herself and chucks the key on the kitchen counter to her left. She also places down the plastic bag full of goods she has purchased, procured from the backroom of a nearby Tesco, out of sight of cameras and out of sight of Mycroft Holmes. She switches on only minimal lights, a small lamp on a small table by the sofa and the lights in the small bathroom, which bathe the main room in their warm glow. The industrial feel, with exposed brick and steel beams, is attractive enough to the modern buyer, but cold and unwelcoming to those who have escaped from prison.

Janine is exhausted and wants nothing more than to collapse onto the bed that sits in the bedroom adjoining the main room, even if the sheets are a little moth-eaten, but there is something she must do first.

Grabbing her plastic bag, she walks on through to the bathroom, shucking off the guard’s uniform as she does. The discarded clothes lay on the ground as she kneels by the bathtub, grabbing the detachable shower head. The water is ice cold at first, but eventually it settles into something Janine calls ‘tepid hale’, and she runs it over her head, soaking her hair.

The hair dye she has chosen was all she could get, the first thing her hands had grabbed in the half-light the room had been in. She is dismayed she must do this, she loves her brunette hair, but needs must if one is on the run from the law.

By the time she is done, and her hair is left to dry naturally, a hairdryer not being a luxury that is available to her, the strands are blonde, all hints of the brunette gone. Janine sighs as she surveys the change she has made, hating every moment, and she is not idle to who enforced this change, forced her to escape and hide and become a fugitive. Janine is a Moriarty, and they always live on the other side of the law, but at this point, procedures have become degrading. James had always been so brilliant at disguising himself like others, but not like _this_ …Janine feels like a lower class of criminal.

Her heart aches and her body feels heavy, and she has to lean her forearms against the sink counter as a wave of grief sweeps over her. She must honour James’ memory, and she reckons that if she must hide herself away for a while so she may enact her revenge, then that is a small price to pay. Soon enough, though, her enemies will be dead, and Janine will purchase the largest bottle of hair dye remover she can find.  As Janine heads over to the bed for a few hours’ rest, she begins to think over exactly where to begin in the exacting of her revenge.                                                                                          

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, Early Morning_ **

Mycroft is woken by the sharp shrilling of his phone, indicating an incoming phone call. He groans, and rolls over onto his side, reaching for his phone where it rests on the bedside table. Beside him, Greg shifts a little, but he remains sleeping, small snores coming from his mouth. Mycroft stares at the screen, trying to figure out who the caller is without his contact lenses in. He can just about make out that it is Anthea’s ID, and he hits the receiver button.

“Yes, Anthea? What is it?” Mycroft’s voice is rough from sleep.

“Sir, we have a situation.” Anthea says down the other end of the line, voice tense.

“What?” Mycroft asks, heart rate beginning to increase.

“Janine Moriarty has escaped her cell, sir.” Anthea says.

“What?!” Mycroft shouts. Greg startles into a sitting position, chest heaving. Mycroft does not even comprehend this happening, he is so caught up in the news Anthea has just imparted.

“We are working on figuring out just quite how, sir.” Anthea tries to appease.

“At this moment that is not my first concern, Anthea,” Mycroft is rarely ever so short with his PA, and he is rarely one to exaggerate, but this is most certainly a life or death situation. “Get anyone available out looking for her, for goodness sake!”

Anthea assures him she will do what she can, but Mycroft is already hanging up the phone, swivelling around until he is sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles braced against the mattress, shoulders tense.

“Myc, what’s wrong? Is it Sherlock?” Greg asks anxiously, crawling over so that he kneels by Mycroft on the mattress.

“No, it’s not Sherlock…” Mycroft says, voice a murmur. “But I fear that if we do not get on top of this situation then the mistakes of the past might repeat themselves, and I will not have Janine Moriarty harming my brother.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! i'm looking forward to where we will take this story, and i really hope you all are too!!  
> See you next time!


	3. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry how long this took! Getting back into this universe, whilst also writing another story...it is a challenge for me! This chapter is quite long, so i hope that makes up for that!
> 
> there's loads of stuff to remember from the first story which is kinda why it is taking so long to write (i have already had to change the name that Janine uses as a pseudonym from Richard Brook to Adam Worth- who is apparently the real life man ACD based Moriarty on- because i'd already used it!)
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoy- trigger warnings in tags

  ** _Tuesday, early morning_**

John rubs his face as he stumbles down the stairs to the front door, the early morning light hurting his sensitive eyes. He doesn’t bother checking who is at the door, he is not awake enough yet to think properly, but when he pulls it open he is greeted by the serious face of Gregson. The image instantly wakes John up, and his jaw tightens in the anticipation of bad news. “What? What is it?”

“Janine Moriarty, John. I am afraid she has managed to escape.” Gregson informs him, tone grave.

John reels back, putting a hand on the doorframe.

“How could that happen?” He asks, voice low. It takes every ounce of his energy not to phone Mycroft Holmes there and then and berate him for being careless enough to let _Janine Moriarty_ escape from her prison!

Gregson sighs. “Apparently she managed to subdue a guard and then dressed in his uniform to escape.”

“Christ, and they fell for that!” John protests. It sounds comical, like something from the spy books John used to read as a child. “What is Mycroft doing about it?”

“As far as I know, he has already got as many people as he can working on finding her. He said he has a meeting this morning with his superiors to address the consequences of Janine’s actions.” Gregson replies.

That sounds thoroughly like a dressing down to John. Upstairs, Sherlock is sleeping, and John cannot bear the thought of the man going through even more pain. “If she even dares try to hurt him…”  
“We will tighten our checks here, John, please do not worry about that.” Gregson reassures. John nods.

“Yeah, thanks, Toby, I just…this is shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, and then looks to Gregson in despair. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

Gregson hesitates for a moment before answering. “This is just my suggestion, but maybe you don’t tell him anything yet, and try and enjoy the day? Think on it before acting.”

John bites the inside of his cheek. Possibly that is for the best; he does not want to lie to Sherlock, but if it is going to hurt him more knowing the truth, then being left ignorant….it seems viable that he doesn’t tell him yet. “Yeah, yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Thanks Toby.” He says, giving Gregson a small smile.

Gregson nods. “I’ll instruct everyone to not discuss any of this with Sherlock if they see him until I have your word.”  
“Thanks, yeah, I’ll keep you updated on what I’ll do. Best just to concentrate on today.” John replies.

Gregson soon departs, and John shuts the door, leaning against it for a moment. It comes as no surprise that Janine _Moriarty_ was able to break her way out of prison; her brother was highly clever and she surely is too, which does not bode well for them. He can only hope she does not want to take revenge on those who had outsmarted her brother, leading to his death, which she had, painfully, been witness to. As he thinks this, John snorts: of course she will! There is no denying that. John feels like an insect, at the mercy of a human who might squash him for their own pleasure. And Sherlock…. the man did not have a good night’s sleep last night, most likely due to the talks the day before which must have subconsciously stirred things up in his brain. John will not let him know, not yet, not when Sherlock has enough to be dealing with today. It is only a few short hours until his parents will arrive. This is a big day.                                                                               

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, late morning_ **

“This is a mistake of drastic proportions!” Lady Smallwood near but shouts. “Someone needs to clean up this mess, Mycroft, and I should certainly think by now you know I have nominated you!”

Mycroft taps his umbrella once against the floor, “Yes, I assumed you would, and in any case, I have already proceeded in assigning people to locate Janine Moriarty’s whereabouts.”

“We all want to put this behind us. Close the report, put the evidence into deep storage, wipe our hands clean of Moriarty. And now, we cannot, because you have let the remaining legacy of his work escape!” Lady Smallwood will not let Mycroft get off easily, and as he stands in front of both her and her colleague, Lord Ackroyd, looking far too casual for her liking, umbrella in hand as if he is only briefly passing through, she feels her irritation rising to the surface, like a pot of water being brought to the boil. If she were not so incensed with anger, she might have possibly noticed Mycroft’s nervous tick, the tapping of his finger against the handle of his umbrella betraying the stress he is under. This is quite the sticky situation to be in, and even Mycroft Holmes is beginning to feel the strain.

“Lady Smallwood, Lord Ackroyd, please be assured that I was chosen for this job because I am _good at it_.” Mycroft says, “I am more than capable of hunting down Janine Moriarty. As such, the situation will be under control in not time.”

“You see that it is.” Lord Ackroyd says. “I trust you, Mycroft, have for years. Don’t betray that trust.”  
Mycroft bows his head in acceptance, but he is struggling not to roll his eyes. He understands that this situation is a very fragile and dangerous one, and lord knows his hand is itching for a cigarette, but he and Gregory have already taken steps to weaken Moriarty’s web, so even if Janine does try to reach out to them, the threat will be considerably smaller. He doesn’t understand why Lady Smallwood and Lord Ackroyd seem to think that in these circumstances Mycroft might somehow be unable to manage, and he wonders if perhaps their doubt is already working against him, gnawing away at his chances of every doing enough to satisfy them. He must make sure he actually eliminates any possible threats before the stupid emotions of his superiors’ work against him. Oh, human fragility, Mycroft sighs, how he _loathes_ it.                                                                                        

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, late morning_ **

Sherlock breathes in the scent of the many pungent flowers in their garden, letting the light and pleasant aroma soothe his mind, stilling his whirring brain. After the dreams he has had last night, he has felt the need to get out into the outside world, to breath in the fresh air, the faint scent of the salt of the sea underlying the potency of the flowers. The dreams, or rather, the memories, were much too vivid, waking him with a sense of doom and anxiety. It was made even worse when he had not felt the heat of John’s body in the bed next to his, and he had almost fallen down the stairs in his haste to find the man, heart pounding, nerves settled when he had finally found John in the kitchen, pouring out tea into two mugs. Sherlock must have startled the man with his urgency, the man had been so wide-eyed when Sherlock had appeared.

Sherlock really should be getting ready for his parents’ visit, but he _needs_ to do this, he needs to come outside and take in the sensory input he gets there. It helps him steel his will against whatever onslaughts his mind wants to throw at him. Sometimes, being inside for so long makes him feel claustrophobic, and unwelcome thoughts of confinement and basements and a darkened house with drawn curtains rise to the surface, and adrenaline more often than not thrums through his body and he has to flee.  

And yet…. Sherlock does not have the desire to venture any further into the outside, that thought makes him…. honestly, it makes him scared. He is a walking contradiction, he thinks with a self-scorning scoff, digging his bare toes into the grassy ground beneath him; scared of the inside, desperate to get out, but conditioned well enough to not fully fly the nest.

He needs more control, he thinks, as he walks through the garden to the bench in the back corner, his favourite place to sit. The morning sun has not yet hit it, so it is cold beneath him when he sits down and folds his legs up in front of him. That is another thing he cannot stop doing, curling himself up, taking up as little space as possible. He feels his stomach squirm as his disgust and frustration at himself rears its head. He needs more control so he can manage these memories or triggers (Sherlock hates that word, because it makes him feel as vulnerable as he is, and he does not like accepting that) much better, much faster, so he can get back to normal and they can return to Baker Street and solve crimes again, and this time when they return home victorious from a case he and John will fall onto the sofa or into bed _together._

He _needs_ to heal, but he is not sure how. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate.

The doors to his mind palace are locked, firmly shut tight, and not matter how much Sherlock pushes and pulls, they will not open. His hands clench on his lap as he desperately tries to get inside, well aware that the more he tries, the worse his panic becomes. A gloom comes over him, a shadow looming, and Sherlock blinks his eyes open, breathing heavily. He needs to lock that monster, or should he say, _monsters,_ outside, or find some deep dank cell inside his mind palace to hide them away. Preferably, he wants to forget, but that will never happen. He looks upwards, to the seagulls that fly overhead in a clear blue sky. Another beautiful day, another marathon effort to try and contain what he is feeling inside. He knows he should seek the help of another human, a so-called professional, but the last time that had happened that person had been blackmailed by Moriarty and Moran and forced him back into their grip at gunpoint. And in any case, who could ever understand what is going on in _his_ mind; if Sherlock cannot fix himself, then who can?                                                                             

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, Early Afternoon_ **

“Sherlock? Toby’s just called, they’re here.” John calls through to Sherlock, who is stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, the door ajar. John bounds up the stairs and into the bedroom, quickly throwing on a jumper, a deep navy wool blend, before he steps out of the bedroom and peers around the door frame at Sherlock.

John may worry that Sherlock is still far too pale, and that his cheeks are hollowed in an unhealthy way, still, from a lack of nutrients, but he is still strikingly beautiful. In this moment, the light of the sun tinting the ends of his overgrown curls a light-brown, highlighting to John his long eyelashes, and where the sun does not hit the side of his face facing John, his cheekbones and jaw are sharply defined, like a renaissance statue.

Sherlock turns from looking at his reflection in the mirror to looking at John, the thoughts flittering behind his eyes incomprehensible. John steps forward, reaching for Sherlock’s hands. They are cold and clammy in John’s own. “Remember what I said yesterday, alright?”  
Sherlock nods, looking down at their joined hands. He takes a deep breath and looks up at John, meeting his eyes. John tries to convey calmness and reassurance, but there is a small niggling demon in the back of his brain that reminds him he is keeping secrets from Sherlock; he is not telling the man about Janine, and he sincerely hopes the flicker of guilt does not show on his face, as Sherlock is sure to pick up on any miniscule change in his expression, and he might ask questions.

“Come down when you’re ready. If you don’t want to meet them at the door, then you don’t have to. Do whatever you want.” John says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John chuckles. “I know, I’m mollycoddling you.”

Sherlock nods, “Well…yes, you are, but no, I don’t want to meet them at the door.”

John nods, “Whatever you want.”

“You said that before, John.” Sherlock says, and John can tell that this brand of sarcasm is coming from the nerves Sherlock is no doubt feeling.

John chuckles again. “I know, I know.”

From down the stairs, there comes a knock on the door. John turns, before looking back to Sherlock. “I’m going to go and answer that, and then make tea. We will be in the lounge.”

Sherlock nods, and lets John release his hands from his grip. He watches the man’s head bob down the staircase and then disappear from view. The sound of the front door opening makes a jolt of adrenaline run through his chest and he pulls the bathroom door closed, leaning against the sink.

Sherlock looks toward the toiletries kit Mycroft had gifted him the day he and John left for Cornwall. He hasn’t used it yet, it just sits on one of the shelves above the toilet. Now, however, he reckons he should probably make the effort; he has never normally cared what his parents have thought, but he has not seen them for almost six years, so this should probably be an exception.

The smell of the aftershave makes him slightly nauseous, but he rakes a hand through his hair, flattening the curls a little, and takes a deep breath. It will all be over in a few hours, and then, he can throw on his pyjamas and curl up in bed, and the comfort of knowing that will be there at the end of the day gives him the confidence to open the bathroom door and head down the stairs.                                                                                        

* * *

 

John is pouring the tea into the pot when the familiar sound of Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs echoes through from the hall.  He looks towards Sherlock’s parents, seated awkwardly on the edge of their seats at the dining table, Violet Holmes’s hand in her husband’s, who is stroking his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. It is a warming image, and John can only begin to imagine how they must be feeling, finally seeing their son after his disappearance five years ago.

John doesn’t watch as Sherlock finally appears in the doorway, taking slow steps through to the kitchen, so that he finally can greet his parents, he doesn’t want the man to feel as is he is a spectacle, but he does watch how Violet Holmes’s face changes, an expression of worry turning into relief at the sight of her youngest child. She cannot help herself from rising from her seat and taking a step towards her son. John glances to Sherlock, to see the man looking tense, but otherwise composed. Violet holds a hand up, as if wanting to reach for her son, but unsure how to approach him. John is unsure how much Mycroft has told them of Sherlock’s ‘time away’, but he assumes the bare essentials, enough to let them know the wounds had been serious, but not enough to deeply upset them. They must know enough to understand Sherlock will not like it if suddenly sprung upon, and Violet waits until Sherlock makes the first move, until he steps forward, taking his mother’s hand in his own.

“Mother.” He says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat and looks past Violet to Siger. “Father.”

“Sherlock.” Violet says, voice heavy with emotion. She cannot resist any longer and pulls Sherlock into a gentle hug. When Sherlock does not protest, she tightens her hold and buries her head against her son’s chest. Sherlock places his head on his mother’s shoulder, letting her hold him for however long she needs. Siger comes forward and places one hand on his wife’s shoulder and another on his son’s, sighing heavily.

John has only met Sherlock’s parents on one other occasion, and that had been during a meeting with Mycroft in which the man had broken the news to them of Sherlock’s disappearance, six months after it had happened. He has been in correspondence with them over the past five years, over the phone with Siger Holmes, who does not get on with technology, and by email with Violet Holmes, who John is sure is the parent Sherlock gets his immense trains of thoughts from, for her emails are always lengthy with a lack of punctuation for fear of halting the thought process. He has never seen them in a state other than worried, so to see the utter joy on Violet’s face and the relief on Siger’s, it brings a smile to John’s own face.

He leaves them to their cathartic embrace whilst he prepares a tray laden with tea and cakes he bought the other day from the bakery in the village. Until he is sure he has given them enough time, he works in silence, finally announcing “Tea’s up,” when the family has broken apart, letting them follow him through into the lounge when they are ready.

Siger is sure to allow his wife to sit next to Sherlock, who, instead of looking trapped and anxious as John had feared, looks almost relaxed, reassured by his parents’ non-judgemental reunion with him. He gives John a small smile as he passes the man his cup of tea.  

“These cakes look delicious John.” Violet comments as she selects a slice of Victoria sponge.

“They’re from this family-owned bakery in town.” John replies. “They’re better than anything I’ve ever tasted. Well, apart from Mrs Hudson’s, of course.” He adds, looking to Sherlock, who smirks.

“Siger does a nice lemon drizzle, don’t you dear?” Violet says, and her husband nods, swallowing the piece of Bakewell he is munching on.

“I used to make it all the time for the children. I did it for your tenth birthday, Sherlock, do you remember?”

Sherlock nods, taking a bite of his own cake, which is chocolate; Sherlock loves chocolate.

“Well, I’m not a good baker, but I hope the lasagne we’ve put together will be edible!” John jokes.

“That’s another favourite of yours, Sherlock.” Violet comments. Sherlock nods again, and John can sense the impending eye roll; of course, Sherlock knows it’s his own favourite. He hides his chuckle behind his tea cup.

There is a silence for a few moments, but Violet soon finds something to talk about. “We’ve never explored Cornwall, only ever seen it on the travel programmes which are my guilty pleasure. Is the village you spoke of, John, as picturesque as our television set paints it to be?”

John nods. “I think so. It really is lovely. We’re a little off the tourists’ trail, although they are flocking this time of year, but it is nowhere near as busy as a main port might be.”

“Oh, like Padstow?” Violet says.

John nods. “Exactly. There’s also less major franchises, so everything is essentially run by the families who have lived her for decades! It also means now people know my face I get numerous discounts!”

Violet smiles and turns to her son. “Have you been to the village yet Sherlock?”

Sherlock shifts a little in his seat. “No. Not yet. I like the garden.”

Violet nods, not pushing the subject, and instead looks to the patio doors leading out to the garden. “From what I can see it looks beautiful. Will you give me a tour?”

Sherlock looks to John and then back again. “Yes, of course.”

Sherlock stands, crossing his arms in front of him, folding his hands up into his jumper sleeves. Violet soon follows, taking her cup of tea with her, and Sherlock leads his mother out into the garden, closing the door behind them. John and Siger watch them go, before Siger turns to John.

“How my son wears jumpers in the summer is beyond me.” He tries to joke, but it lands sour. Both men know it is because Sherlock has little body fat to insulate him, and John had seen this morning when Sherlock turned away from the short-sleeved t-shirts to something that would cover the scars on his body.

Siger’s cheeks redden, and John is about to reassure him of his mistake when the man speaks again, “Compared to the rest of my family, I might look like an idiot. My wife is a retired mathematician, and you have, of course, met my sons. I have not done anything of such significance.”

“Mr Holmes…” John begins to interrupt, but Siger continues.

“I think my sons believe they owe their incredible intelligence to their mother, and certainly most of it they do, but they owe their ability to function among us _mere mortals_ to me.”

John is unsure where the man is going when Siger suddenly turns to look at him. “I do not know where he would be if you were not here. Mycroft cares for his brother, but he has never been very good at displaying his emotions. He doesn’t quite understand it, I think, although he would never admit it. I fear he may have placed Sherlock in some sort of care home if you had not been there, pick the straight-forward, swift solution for Sherlock’s care. I cannot thank you enough for your constant loyalty to my youngest son, particularly after his ordeal.”

“I love your son, Mr Holmes. There is nothing I would not do for him. You do not have to thank me.” John replies, incredibly touched by Siger’s words.

“I know I do not have to thank you, but I want to. I understand events have not gone well for you in past months. I am sorry for the loss of your former partner.”

John swallows down the lump in his throat. These past two months have given him time to process and accept Mary’s sudden death, and the sacrifice it came as, but it still smarts, like his bullet wound on a cold winter’s day, every now and then.

“Thank you. Please do not think I in any way regret making my decision to come here with Sherlock, however. I will always respect Mary’s legacy, but he has always meant more to me than any other person.”

Siger nods. “I can see that. I am sure you must miss London.”

John hesitates before answering. “I do. It is the only place I feel home, but we will see it again. I would not want to be there without Sherlock, and if this is where he needs to be, that is fine by me. I mean, we could be in a much worse place!” he says, gesturing towards the beautiful garden and sea-view through the patio doors.

Siger chuckles. “I think Violet will want to holiday here now she has realised how beautiful Cornwall is in the flesh.”

John laughs. “Don’t blame her.”

Their conversation dies down, and they each sip at their tea, enjoying the comfortable silence.

“John, please tell me.” Siger says, tone low. “How is he really?”  
John takes a deep breath, blowing it out through his mouth. “Honestly? I am not sure I can fully say. I have never been able to understand what is going on in Sherlock’s head, but from what I can work out…. he’s doing alright. I don’t want to give you false hope, but he is coping so much better with the post traumatic stress. We have it all managed medication wise too, but…” Siger gestures for him to continue. “I think he has come to a stop. I think it might do him the world of good to find a professional to talk to, but I don’t want to press him. You see, he did see a therapist whilst we were staying at Mycroft’s, but he later admitted he’d only done so to please me. I don’t want that to happen again.”  
Siger nods in understanding. He licks his lips before speaking. “Sherlock said he hasn’t been to the village yet…”  
John shakes his head. “No. He hasn’t left the cottage at all, and whilst I don’t want to push him…. I think it will be worse for him the longer he procrastinates leaving.”  
Siger nods. “I don’t think anyone could handle this better than you John. And I think Sherlock trusts you implicitly. He will listen to you.”                                                                              

* * *

 

“Oh look, you have violets.” Violet points out as they make their slow way around the garden, Sherlock’s mother inspecting and appreciating every single plant and flower. Her garden has always been her relaxing retreat, and she can see that it is the same for Sherlock, too. His arms have uncrossed and he is pointing out his favourite plants with passion. Sherlock has always been passionate; that is what Violet loves the most about her son.

“Yes, although those are not my favourites. These ones are.” Sherlock says, pointing to another flowerbed. “Lavender, beebalms, and stonecrop. They all attract bees.”

Violet looks to her youngest son. “You’ve always liked bees.”

Sherlock nods. “I would like to get a beehive, but I don’t know how long we’ll be here. I couldn’t keep them in London.”

Violet hums, taking a sip of her tea. As they watch, a bee comes down to land on the lavender, feasting on the pollen. Sherlock watches, fascinated, but Violet cannot help but let her gaze wander over to her son, watching as he observes the bee.

She is not stupid. Mycroft may have tried to pacify her with the basic facts of Sherlock’s disappearance, but her eldest son had forgotten that she knows the both of them better than they know themselves. She can see on Sherlock’s face the state of his mind; that he wears a jumper in the summer tells her all about the state of his body; his body language; his gestures. Violet Holmes is the origin of her sons’ brilliant deductive skills. Mycroft has obviously forgotten that.

“There is nothing like honey from your very own beehive.” She remarks.

Sherlock hums, nodding slightly. “I think John would like that. He loves food.”

“He’s good for you.” She says.

Sherlock looks to her. “I know. He never really left me, when I was….” He hesitates.

“You don’t have to sensor the truth for me, Sherlock.” Violet says, touching her son’s arm lightly.

Sherlock nods. “When I was kidnapped. He was always in my mind palace. And when that crumbled, and locked me out, John was still there.”

“He will always be there for you, I think.” Violet says. “Whatever happens.”  
“Yes.” Sherlock says quietly. “Mycroft always underestimates John. He thinks he is a simple man, but to me he is…the most complex creature.”

“And he loves you?”

Sherlock swallows, a small smile gracing his face. “Yes, he does.”

“We all do, darling. You must know that.”

Sherlock smiles, kissing his mother’s cheek.

“I should think you must be hungry. Shall we head back inside?” He asks, offering her his arm to hold.

As they walk away, heading back to the cottage, the bee finishes its pollination and flies away, heading upwards, towards the sun.                                                                              

* * *

 

**_Tuesday Afternoon_ **

“You know, if you want, I could spare some of the team, get them on Janine’s case?” Greg offers Mycroft, pacing in front of the man’s desk.

Mycroft shakes his head, looking up from the CCTV footage of the government prison in which Janine had been incarcerated, and which shows her, head lowered and under the guise of a guard, stalking through the halls and towards her escape. “No, thank you, Gregory. Keep your people focussed on finding the littler criminals, it is all they have the brain capacity for. Leave the hunt for the relative of a criminal mastermind to the actual professionals.”

Greg huffs and stops pacing, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thanks very much, I’m sure you don’t appreciate my team’s help in finding the evidence linking Magnussen to Moriarty in that basement Sherlock was kept in. Wasn’t helpful to you at all.”

“That was only due to circumstance, any of my people could have found that, too.” Mycroft counters.

“Then don’t give my people such bad press, they’re good cops!” Greg says, and Mycroft lets out a long sigh. “What’s up? I know you’re only snapping at me because you’re stressed.”

“You ask me what is wrong and then pinpoint the reason for my discomfort, what sort of sense does that make?” Mycroft asks, looking up at Greg. He looks so much like Sherlock used to, when Greg might offer a preposterous theory at a crime scene, in that moment, that Greg cannot help but chuckle.

“Just tell me everything that is going on, Myc.” He says, sitting down in a chair across from Mycroft. Mycroft sighs, tapping at the keyboard of his computer before turning to Greg.

“My superiors are aggravated by my failure to keep Janine Moriarty safely locked up. My team, since Mary Morstan’s killing spree, has been depleted. It is in shambles. New recruits start tomorrow, and in the meantime, myself and Anthea are having to do a substantial amount of work with depleted resources.”

“Then why won’t you let me help?” Greg asks.

“This is too confidential for the Police, Gregory. You are only being told because of our amiable relationship.”

“ _Amiable relationship.”_ Greg repeats, shaking his head in amusement.

Mycroft gives him a strange look, before turning back to the screen. “My superiors’ anger might be overtly-dramatic but it is nonetheless understandable. It was a stupid mistake, to let her escape, and it was done so easily, almost like child’s play. Look at this, she just walks out posed as a guard!”

Mycroft turns the screen to show Greg the footage of Janine’s escape. Greg leans forward to watch the woman walk through into each camera’s gaze. He looks to Mycroft after the footage begins to repeat itself, and he sees the small ticks of irritation on the man’s face.  

“I’m assuming you’ve let John know?” He asks.

Mycroft nods, turning the screen of his computer to himself once again. “I had Tobias Gregson inform him this morning. That he has not yet phoned me to shout tells me he has kept the knowledge from Sherlock for now. My brother would know something was wrong if John were to make some excuse to phone me, the man is so bad at lying. To be honest, I prefer it this way. If this does anything to hinder Sherlock’s healing, I could not forgive myself.”  
Greg lets a sad smile grace his face. To many, Mycroft is the impregnable ‘Iceman’, who believes that caring is not an advantage, and yet…Mycroft _cares_ , far too much about everything, to the point where his self-preservation is strained to the limit. Especially when it comes to Sherlock. Most of the time, Greg encourages Mycroft’s inability to follow his own advice, telling him that caring is a _good thing_ , but in this case, he wishes Mycroft’s caring would not take on a self-destructive edge.

“Well, it might be a good thing that Sherlock and John are in Cornwall.” He says. “Janine has no idea where they are and they’re a fair few hours’ away. Even if she does make a move to harm Sherlock, we will have enough time to prepare.”

“We must anticipate her every move, Gregory. She’s a Moriarty, I’m sure she’s able to use whatever she may find to her advantage. You need to continue finding those remnants of Moriarty’s web, keep puling apart every piece until Janine Moriarty is left with nothing with which to attack us.”                                                                                       

* * *

 

  ** _Tuesday afternoon_**

“You’re late.” Janine spits at those who have knocked on her door, opening it just a crack, waiting for an explanation. “I said two, it is now half-past.”

“Sorry, miss.” One man, bald, dressed in a shabby hoodie and jeans, “There were delays on the underground.”

Janine sighs, “Who are you?”

“The name’s Morgan, miss.” The man, Morgan, replies, “And this here is Stanley. He’s not one for conversation.”

The other man, Stanley, just nods at Janine, ratty brown hair falling into his eyes.

“Your brother was a good employer, miss. I’m sorry for your loss.” Morgan says, stuffing his hands in the front of his hoodie.

“Well, if you’re so cut up about it, you can prove yourself in my service.” Janine replies, keeping her tone cool, sharp. She opens the door wide and lets the men pass her, shutting and locking it once they are inside.

She turns, assured by the others that Morgan and Stanley were the last two missing, and strides through the throng of men and women, all dressed inconspicuously, some with hoods up, faces hidden, some stood and some leaning against the sparse furniture which occupies Janine’s flat. These are all those that she could get a hold of who had, until a few months ago, been working for her brother. They are all criminals of various sorts, some simple thugs who like to throw punches, others trained in fraud and hacking. There aren’t, however, that many of them; Janine would approximate twenty.

“I thought there would be more of you, the moment I posted the message on the forum.” Janine remarks, stepping through the crowd to stand next to one of the curtained, large windows, left over from the Victorian factory. An open laptop sits on one of the kitchen counters, purchased that morning using a debit card concealed under the kitchen sink under the pseudonym Adam Worth. The message, which had been posted onto a forum under the guise of a knitting advice group, but was instead the centre of communication, as a last resort, for James’s web in Britain, has long since been deleted. Those who had read it were supposed to have come, but the turnout is disgraceful.

“Mycroft Holmes has scared a lot of people off.” A woman with a short blonde bob replies. “He’s had the police hounding weaker targets.”

Janine frowns, her eyes narrowing. Damn that man. “Then I must thank you all for your continued loyalty to my brother’s cause and promise you that the hounding will stop. We must unseat Mycroft Holmes from his lofty throne. The question is how?”

“We could kill him?” A nasty man with a gold tooth offers, flashing a gun from the inside of his jacket pocket.

“Oh yes, we will, but not just yet.” Janine replies. “First I want him disgraced, and then I want him to watch his little brother die.”

The criminals watch in silence as Janine paces, running a hand absently through her newly dyed hair. She turns back to them. “I am sure you are all aware of my brother’s kidnapping and abuse of Sherlock Holmes for the last five years. My brother and Sebastian never let Sherlock out of their sight, they barely let him out of the basement for that matter. They treated him how he deserved, but it was brutal, physically and emotionally. One does not so quickly recover from that kind of trauma. Sherlock is weak, still, it will be easy to get to him, somehow.” Janine paces, tracing a finger over the dusty windowsill. “Perhaps we should scare him a little? Not do any damage, no, not yet, but just…frighten him.”  
“And how’d you suggest we do that?” Asks Morgan, gruff, snorting a little as he inhales.

Janine turns to him, eyes narrowed. “I am not quite sure where he is residing; it will either be Baker Street or big brother’s house…You, and you,” she gestures to Morgan and the man he had arrived with. “You said you got done once for breaking and entering?”

“Yeah, s’right.” Morgan says, nodding, “We tried nicking some jewels off an old rich biddy.”

“Would you be averse to resuming old habits?” Janine asks.

Morgan looks to his accomplice, who shrugs and says nothing. Morgan turns back to Janine and nods. “Yeah. Don’t see why not.”

“Good.” Janine says, smiling briefly. She crosses to the table, ripping a page out of a notebook and scribbling something down. She passes the paper to Morgan. “Then tonight I should like you to visit Mycroft Holmes’s house, break in, scare the occupants a little. And if you can, steal something, something that might look important.”

Morgan nods, looking down at the paper, a little unsure of his task. “How much you paying?”

Janine sighs, rolling her eyes. “Take the most expensive thing you see and pawn it; that shall be your payment.”

Morgan hesitates, but eventually concedes, tucking the paper in the pocket of his jeans.

“Are you not resuming any of your brother’s former plans? Not attempting nation-wide domination?” Someone with a hood completely covering their face asks.

Janine shakes her head. She had seen Sherlock Holmes complete derail her plans with one simple code, watched as her brother’s ambitions has been scuppered. “James’s ambitions are not the same as my own. I want simple revenge for his death against the Holmes brothers, that is all.” Some of the criminals grumble at this, but Janine shoots their protests down with a glare. “If you’d like, you can leave the protection of my brother’s web and seek your livelihoods elsewhere. Maybe you’d like to turn yourself into the police? Spend a nice spell in a jail cell? Then finally be released to find yourself with no protection, no income, and absolutely no future prospects?”  
This seems to do the trick, and the grumbling settles down. Someone even raises their hand, offering to tackle Baker Street, break in and try to scare the younger Holmes, if he is there. Janine accepts their offer.

“All of you, I will keep in touch via the forum. I will update you on whatever progress we are making there.” She says, preparing to end their meeting. This really was only meant to be an introductory session, to ensure their loyalty and to take the first steps in proceedings whilst a long-term scheme is put into place. Right after she has spoken, however, someone steps forward from the back of the crowd. He is well-dressed compared to most of the others, button down shirt pressed underneath a navy peacoat, blonde hair swept back stylishly. “I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?” Janine says, holding out her hand to offer him the floor. The man steps forward, but addresses her, not the crowd.

“If you want to disgrace Mycroft Holmes, why not do it in the press?” He says. His voice is smooth like caramel, his eyes piercingly blue.

“A public humiliation?” Janine asks, liking the idea already.

The man nods. “Yes. The origin of its publisher will be all the more troubling for Holmes.”

“Oh?” Janine asks.

“I work for CAM news.” The man replies. “Only very recently employed. I have heard on the grapevine that your brother blackmailed my employer, Charles Augustus Magnussen, into complying with his plans, and yet in the end Magnussen was saved by Mycroft Holmes, who managed to stop your brother, and that since then, they have settled matters between themselves.”

The man is slightly incorrect in his telling of the tale, Sherlock was the one who actually stopped the whole plan in which Magnussen was implicated, but she does not correct him, what the man is saying does not necessarily need to be correct, she knows exactly the point he is getting at. “And so, to have the newspaper of the man who apparently _owes_ Mycroft Holmes something slurring his name…. why, that would be quite the betrayal.”

The man nods, shrugging his shoulders as if to say ‘ _see?’_. Janine bites the top of her thumb nail crossing her arms over her chest. “What I don’t understand, is how you expect to get away with this without Magnussen noticing.”  
The man shrugs again. “From my experience so far working for his paper, he is surprisingly lax in what we may publish in his newspaper; only sometimes does he give us incredibly specific information to publish, and it is always some sort of scandal about an important or famous person. If I don’t highlight specifics, not at first anyway, then he surely will not notice.”  
Janine nods. “And even then, he does not always read his own papers.” Her time working as Magnussen’s personal assistant has taught her that Magnussen would much rather spend his time scanning the pages of competitors or drawling away on his phone to whosoever he is looking to expose. Only on a few occasions has she seen him read his own paper, mostly for his approval before publishing; but in those cases, Magnussen had only looked for the articles he _specifically_ wanted published, laughing and tutting as he had revelled in the drama he was about to cause.

“I like this.” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand for the man to shake. “An offensive attack, and then a much more subtle, _civilised_ attack. It is a pleasure to meet you….”

“Trevor.” The man replies, accepting Janine’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Victor Trevor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed- there's a lot here that now deviates from the show- for example, John does not first meet Sherlock's parents in 'The Empty Hearse', nor does Eurus exist (because i did not like series 4)
> 
> also, my knowledge of plants is tiny- i took what i say about flowers and bees from google, so i hope it's correct!
> 
> plus i just completely made up Lord Ackroyd- there was a Peter Ackroyd book on my desk next to me and voila!
> 
> finally, if you've ever been to Padstow, Cornwall, in the summer, you will know what i mean by crowded!
> 
> thanks for reading, see you next time!


	4. Strange encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I can't believe i've managed to get this up, this wasn't even written this morning! But here we are!  
> There is quite a bit of strong language in this one, just heads up.
> 
> TW: see tags

**_Tuesday, early evening:_ **

Siger Holmes looks over to Violet Holmes as their car pulls away from the cottage, reaching for his wife’s hand and grasping it tightly. Violet looks to him, and when she does she has tears in her eyes. The sight makes his eyes prickle with moisture, too.

“He looks better than I thought he would do, from, well, from what Mycroft _didn’t_ tell us, but he was still so thin…” Violet whispers into the soft furnishings of the car interior.

Siger nods. “You know he’s never eaten much. John is good for him. What I would not do for that man to have met Sherlock much earlier than he did. He will get Sherlock healthy again.”  
“No, I know…” Violet nods. “But it will always be hard to see him like that. Yes, though, thank goodness for John. I feel as if I have lost my way, though, Sig, do you understand? I cannot fix this like I could a scraped knee, I cannot fix this like we couldn’t fix him after Redbeard. How stupid we were, to let that therapist label him as a ‘sociopath’! I should have done more, I should always have done more!”

Violet begins to cry in earnest, and Siger brings her head to rest against his chest. She is right, he knows, they should have done more for Sherlock as a child. Neither of them had had any idea what they were doing when they first had children; Mycroft was sturdy enough to face the troubles of school, but Sherlock found it harder, and could not quite explain to them what he found so hard, and their efforts to help him, Siger is ashamed to admit, were pitiful. He does not blame Violet for anything she did or did not do, she was always preoccupied by some mathematical calculation; that is how she had always been, that is what he loved about her, the buzz of her brain at all times. No, Siger should have looked out for his sons, both of them, and now he is doing his best to remedy that, but it is not enough, it never will be.

Maybe the both of them would never be enough for Sherlock.

But possibly, hopefully, John could be.                                                                                  

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, late evening_ **

John is clearing away the dinner dishes, scraping off the remains of lasagne into the bin, when the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps coming in from the garden makes him look up. He accidentally spills some pasta down the side of the bin at the look on Sherlock’s face. He looks unsure of himself, thumb running repeatedly over the knuckles of his other hands, fingers clasping and unclasping. It makes John’s stomach clench, reminding him of nightmares and screams, but when Sherlock speaks his voice is confident.

“John, I-I think I’d like to go to the village.” He says, but he does not meet John’s eye.

“Really?” John says, trying to calm his excitement, not come on too strongly. “Well, yes, if you’d like that we can certainly do so!”

“Not, not out in the open, at first.” Sherlock says, “But maybe in the car?”

John thinks of the large Range Rover Toby uses, how difficult that will be to manoeuvre through the narrow streets of the quaint seaside village, but if Sherlock is finally willing to leave the cottage, then John is sure it will be doable. “Yes, absolutely. Whatever you want. Just say when.”

Sherlock shifts on his feet. “Maybe…tomorrow?”

John nods. “Fine. Let me go and inform Toby. You’ll be alright here?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock says, “Go.”

John leaves the room for only a few moments, just to make a quick phone call to Gregson, but Sherlock feels wrung out from the frayed emotions and constant conversation of the day, and so Sherlock stands in the space between the hallway and kitchen, making sure he can hear John’s voice, smell the faint scent of his aftershave. It is hard for him to ignore the dark shadows that are starting to spread their way over the house, now that the sun is beginning to set. He shivers, despite the jumper he wears, and itches to reach for the nearest book, simply to have something to hold, but scorns himself off doing so: taking up nervous ticks, how pathetic he is! Here, where he is supposed to be healing, but is instead suspended, as if caught in a jar and pickled, without quite knowing which way to turn. He supposes a trip to the village is a good start, which is why he had suggested it to John, but he cannot see himself being miraculously cured after observing tedious tourists and the close-knit community that John has managed to assimilate his way in to. John has a way of doing that, managing to mix with people well, but Sherlock’s social skills are even worse now than they had been when he was impervious and austere; now, there is an element of fear, exposure. Sherlock wonders whether he might have somehow developed agoraphobia from being shut away for five years. He thinks perhaps it had been inside of him all along, but he had more will power, in the ‘olden days’, to fight it, push it away.

By the time John makes his way back to him, stopping suddenly to see Sherlock’s presence in the doorway, Sherlock has managed to work himself into quite the maudlin mood. John puts a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s all settled with Toby, if you’re sure of it?”

“I am sure!” Sherlock spits, with a vitriol which has built up inside of him. He manages to contain a flinch, Moran might have slapped him for such an outward show of disobedience, but this is John, Sherlock reminds himself, this is the cottage, this is freedom. Heavens he is strung out!

John, instead of being hurt, looks at Sherlock with even more concern. It is slightly sickening, Sherlock thinks, and makes him feel like an invalid.  “I’m not going to push this, I know you don’t want to feel crowded, but don’t do this for anyone but yourself, love.”

Sherlock knows John is thinking of Doctor Laurens, of his commitment to her efforts only because of John, but that is not the case this time. “It is not like that, John. I do want to try to go outside of the cottage. I…. yes, I am scared, but I think it is worse for me to be here, where I feel comfortable. I need to push myself out of my comfort zone in order to really see myself, see what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Sherlock. There’s no set way to make yourself heal from what you went through. It’s not as simple as all that-”

“I just want to _try_ it, John!” Sherlock interrupts, forgetting himself and indulging in his habits, and fiddling with a piece of wood that is sticking out from the doorframe, splintering it further.

“Alright.” John says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He moves closer to Sherlock, but Sherlock does not feel crowded and John stills the absentminded fiddling of his hand by taking it in his own. Instead, he feels that wave of comfort that John’s presence always brings, as if a duvet has been drawn up over his body, covering him completely with a reassuring presence. “I’m really proud of you, you know. Without sounding too soppy, you did so well with your parents.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I cannot say it wasn’t hard, but….it was easier than I thought it would be.”

In no way had he felt any pressure upon his parents to act in a certain way, to put on a cheery smile as if an actor upon the stage. And yet, they did not seem discouraged by his state of being, just simply grateful for his having returned to them, alive and…. well, alive. He is glad, though, they are gone, and that he and John can relax into the peace of each other’s company.

“Please, can we go to bed?” he says, and John nods, leading him upstairs by the gentle pressure of their clasped hands. John always comes back downstairs afterwards to switch off the lights, having experienced once the overwhelming terror Sherlock had felt one evening at having suddenly becoming consumed in darkness. It had brought on the worst flashback Sherlock had had in weeks, and John still feels awfully guilty at having been so careless.

The feeling of finally achieving the goal of his day, going to bed, fills Sherlock with a stupid sense of accomplishment, and he mentally berates himself at how little he has grown, getting so excited about bed, especially when dreams could bring terror, and experience will not let him know John entirely with his body. He wonders how John feels about retiring to bed, when it brings nothing fulfilling. Does he miss Mary, in those moments? Her, Sherlock assumes, willingness to be intimate? For most people their age, this would be the time of passion, tender and vibrant all at once, comforting as a warm fire in winter and an exciting as the flames on Guy Fawkes night, huge and consuming. But Sherlock’s fire has been doused, and no matter how much he tries to reignite it his efforts are futile, the touch of his own hands might as well be Moran’s, or Moriarty’s. Slimy, possessive.

He shakes off this further melancholy, and settles himself under the covers, telling himself that he has not been a disappointment to his parents, so he should stop being so hard on himself. But like his hopeless efforts at entering his mind palace, the thought seems to meet a brick wall, stopping dead.                                                                          

* * *

**_Tuesday, late evening_ **

Not since Sherlock first disappeared has Mycroft felt so helpless, and he has never, he thinks, felt so aggravated.

“For god’s sake, you simply patch in to the CCTV system. Do they teach you anything in training, anymore?” He spits.

The new recruit simply sweats, their fingers working quickly across the keyboard in front of them, desperately trying to find the route to the CCTV Mycroft has ordered them to bring up.

Mycroft sighs and leaves them to it, pacing around the large, dark room, watching those who have been brought in at a moment’s notice, filling spaces that will be occupied by new recruits in the morning. The search for Janine Moriarty cannot wait for them, however, and Mycroft has been called because those Anthea has been trying to instruct have been, frankly, struggling with grasping the basics. He had left Anthea at his house, telling her to take the evening off. Mycroft is a control freak, he will instruct, and mostly shout, at these people if he has to. Anything to find Janine.

Mycroft has not trusted them to search any database or any camera properly, and so they are wasting time by going over sources that could have been cleared hours ago. They have had practically a whole day and have got nowhere!

If Mycroft was a bitter man, he might wonder if Lady Smallwood had rigged it to be this way. He knows she’s been looking for any excuse to scorn him, and this might be it. Would she, though, at the risk of the country’s stability? Possibly.

Mycroft checks his phone for any updates from Greg on his own business, but finds nothing from him, but he does have a text from John.

_‘Sherlock does not know. I will not tell him. For fuck’s sake get her. JW.’_

Mycroft can almost see John in front of him, fuming and stamping his feet like an English Bulldog, small and annoyed. He is glad, though, that his brother does not know, he would prefer it that way. He would very much prefer for Sherlock to not be aware Janine has escaped at all, and for him to catch her in his net once again promptly and swiftly, and for the incident to be forgotten in time. That, however, is proving difficult. He sighs once again, and turns back to the stupidity in front of him. He can already feel the headache forming behind his eyes.                                                                              

* * *

 

**_Tuesday, late evening_ **

“No, no I’ve never thought of it that way.” Anthea ponders, licking at the ice cream on the end of her spoon. “And you’re sure that’s a valid theory?”

Molly, who sits across from her at Mycroft’s kitchen counter, holding her own spoon of ice cream, shrugs. “Not sure how valid, but I like it. Think it’s different, you know? A female Jack the Ripper…I suppose women might have dressed as men in those days, get away with more.”

“You think dressing as a man would make her murder more conspicuous?”

“Not just murder.” Molly says with a snigger. “I mean anything. My job, for example.”

“Ah, so not killing bodies, but opening them up nonetheless.” Anthea jokes, and Molly huffs, giving Anthea a menacing look.

The two women eat their ice cream in a comfortable silence for a few moments, enjoying each other’s company, as they have been doing for the past few weeks, every now and then. Molly hopes her fiancée doesn’t start to get suspicious; she is sure she is spending more time with Anthea, now, than with him.

The comfortable silence is broken, however, by an unsettling sound, like a sort of banging. Both women startle and come to attention, ice cream now forgotten. The sounds come again, unmistakably made by a human.

“Bugger.” Anthea says. She rises from her stool, pressing the button on the underside of the kitchen counter which will alert the Police to their dilemma, and pulls from her blazer pocket a small handgun.

“Stay here.” She whispers to Molly, as she checks the weapon is loaded. She stealthily makes her way to the kitchen doorway, peering out into the hallway. It is almost comical, how she can make out the shadows of what are at least two men, one on the landing above her, and one in Mycroft’s office. She turns as she hears a noise behind her, and sees Molly, pale but determined, clutching a frying pan.

“Go back.” She spits.

“I’d rather be with you, if you don’t mind.” Molly whispers, tightening her hold on the frying pan. “You’ve got the weapon.”

Anthea sighs, but does not protest further, and instead both women begin to edge forward. She should wait for the Police, but she did not join Her Majesty’s Government with the idea of a cushy desk job, but instead with the idea of excitement, James Bond-like, expect with herself in the driving seat.

She peers around the doorway to Mycroft’s office, to see a man, dressed all in black, but messily, done cheaply, as if a comic burglar, trifling through documents and papers, looking for something. He hits his head on the desk as he picks up something he has dropped and swears loudly.

“Morgan!” the man calls from upstairs. “There’s no one here!”

Suddenly the man, a weedy looking as the other man, scuttles down the stairs, but freezes dead at the sight of Anthea’s gun trained on him. “Oh!” He says. “Shit!”

Police sirens can be heard, and Anthea adjusts her grip on the gun. “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”

By this point, the other man has been alerted to Anthea and Molly’s presence, coming out of the office and immediately raising his arms in surrender at the sight of her gun.

“Shit, Stanley, get down here now!” He says.

Anthea trains her gun on Stanley instead. “Don’t move.”

The sirens are getting louder, and a sense of anticipation fills the room. “I will ask you again.” Anthea says. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” the man from the office says, “Breaking in.”  
“Don’t get clever!” Anthea says.

The man, still cautious but obviously of a cocky disposition, rolls his eyes. “I ain’t being clever with you, love, it’s as simple as that, we’re breaking and entering. Just wanted to give someone a fright, that’s all, but they’re not here.”  
‘ _So they chose this house specifically_ ,’ Anthea thinks.

“And who was that?” Anthea asks.

“You know a Sherlock Holmes?” The man asks, and Anthea tries not let her surprise show. “Janine Moriarty sent us, just wanted to let him know she’s looking for revenge for her brother.”

Anthea tries to keep the man talking, he is stupid enough to be boastful. “Revenge? In what way?”  
He shrugs. “I dunno. She just wanted us to scare ‘im.”

“Shit, Morgan, we gotta run!” Stanley shouts. The sirens are surely right outside by now. Molly moves away, presumably to open the door. Morgan uses Janine’s moment of distraction to throw something in her face, obscuring her vision and startling her. Heavy footsteps crash against the floor and by the time Janine’s vision clears both men are gone, most likely through the way they got in. she looks down at what had distracted her, as it now lies on the floor. It is papers from Mycroft’s office, which had fanned out in a flurry once Morgan had thrown them. _‘Stupid!’_ she thinks, going after the men.

She bursts through into the sitting room, to see the back doors wide open. They must have climbed over the fence. A large pot plant has been knocked over; possibly that is the thumping sound they had heard. Heading back through to the hallway, a police officer now stands, talking to Molly. Anthea ignores them and darts into Mycroft’s office, checking to see if there is anything vital that may have been stolen. But the computer is still hibernating, and there is such a disarray of papers that she cannot be sure. If only the door had been locked! Mycroft must have forgotten, or else the lock had been picked. It seems unlikely Mycroft would have forgotten, but he has been distracted lately, Anthea can tell, and she fears that the news of this break in will only bring him more difficulty. With a twinge of sympathy, she pulls out her phone and puts it on speed dial. Mycroft will not be happy.                                                                                     

* * *

 

**_Wednesday morning_ **

This is the first time in five years that Sherlock will, properly, see the outside world, meaning to, paying attention. When he had escaped he had not been focussed on his surroundings, only trying to get back in touch with anyone who could help, and even after Moran and Mary had perished in the house explosion, he could not properly say he processed his conversation with bewildered neighbours as an actual attempt to assimilate himself once again in society. So here he is, peering slightly warily out of the car window, at the Cornish coast in front of them. Frankly, it is all a little underwhelming.

John, beside him, seems to be thrumming with as much tension as he is, and Sherlock wonders why. Does he worry Sherlock might react badly? Have some sort of reaction to the outside world? That thought makes Sherlock shift in his seat, the seatbelt now terribly restrictive. He swallows, his throat dry. _‘Stop it._ ’ He tells himself ‘ _stop doubting every one, including yourself. It will just make everything worse.’_

The village is up ahead of them now, the sign into it wishing them a warm welcome. They are rapidly descending, making Sherlock’s ears pop. He is glad of the partition that separates the front of the Range Rover, for although he likes Tobias Gregson, who is sitting in the driver’s seat, he would rather the man not notice Sherlock’s building anxiety.

Sherlock feels a familiar hand on his own, and looks to John’s drawn yet reassuring face. His partner nods and strokes a thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock looks back out of the window.                                                                                             

* * *

 

John hopes terribly that Sherlock cannot see the tension thrumming through his body, the overwhelming anger from not being able to do anything. A call had come, directly to him this time, from Mycroft, that morning. Sherlock had been in the garden, so John had answered. Apparently, Janine Moriarty had set some men upon both Mycroft’s residence and 221 Baker Street, in the effort, according to one of the men that Anthea had confronted, of frightening Sherlock, and also, in warning for a forthcoming revenge. Thank goodness Mrs Hudson was away at her sister’s, otherwise John dreads to think what might have happened to her. John had had to bite down on his tongue, had to spit out his anger into the receiving instead of shouting it, in case Sherlock would hear. John hasn’t told him any of this yet.

“God, Mycroft, don’t let the press know about this.” John had said that morning.

“They won’t John, how could they?” Mycroft had replied. “Everyone is sworn to secrecy. It’s confidential.”

“Yes, but you’ve had infiltrations into your precious government before, haven’t you?” John had spat back, and the unspoken words behind that were enough to make Mycroft sigh and give John a weary apology. He promised John he is doing all he can, but John had angrily told him his best wasn’t enough and put down the receiver.

It was stupid to think that Janine might have people out there, ready to try and hurt Sherlock the moment they got to the village, she obviously had no idea they were in Cornwall, but John feels incredibly uneasy, knowing she is out there, making plans, like knowing an illness or injury will kill you but being unable to do anything about it.

John places his hand over Sherlock’s, hoping to ease the nerves John can see the man is feeling, and hopefully, in the process, soothe his own.                                                                                        

* * *

 

The village is not as busy as Sherlock had thought it might be, but still there is the hubbub of people moving about, going in and out of the small shops that line the main high street. Some people glare at their car as it moves down the road, forcing them to press themselves up against the walls of wind-bitten buildings the streets are so narrow. Luckily, the windows of the Range Rover are mirrored, so Sherlock can see out but they cannot see in.

They finally seem to burst through the narrowest part of the street to come out onto the harbour, with its large skidway for the fishing boats to head out into the great ocean beyond. A pub called ‘The Jolly Sailor’ stands on the corner of the street, and a number of families are enjoying a beverage and a cake in the outside seating area. There is space for cars to park before leading down to the harbour, and Gregson pulls the car into a space, shutting off the engine. A small window in the divider is opened and his face pokes through.

“Is this alright, Sherlock, or do you want me to keep driving?” He asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “This is fine.” He mutters. He watches one family down on the small beach of the harbour, throwing a piece of driftwood for their pet dog. Redbeard’s tail used to wag like that when he was excited to play fetch, Sherlock remembers.

The day outside is bright, the sky clear, and that seems to Sherlock too revealing, putting him in too stark a light. He would probably stand out like a sore thumb should he get out of the car now, in his winter jumper, so he presses himself further back into his seat.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” John said, his hand still in Sherlock’s. “I might go and get us some Belgian buns from the bakery, it’s only up there. What do you say?”

“Okay.” Sherlock nods. “I’ll stay here.”

John accepts this and gives Sherlock’s hand one last squeeze before pulling away, unclipping his seatbelt and opening his door. The squawking of seagulls greets their ears. “You want anything Toby? Wiggins?” John calls.

“I’ll have a jam donut, thanks John.” Replies Gregson.

“Jam tart, thanks.” Says Wiggins, who is sat in the front passenger seat.

“Be back soon.” John smiles at Sherlock, before climbing out and shutting the car door behind him.

Gregson and Wiggins don’t say a word to Sherlock, understanding the importance of this trip to him, what it means, letting him process. Sherlock is watching the people move outside as if they were on the television, or actors on the stage. He is detached, they are not aware of his presence, not exactly; the car they cannot help but glance to now and then, it is so large and fancy, but they do not know Sherlock is in it, like actors who are aware of the presence of the audience, but cannot see the individual faces past the glaring stage lights.

This is not so bad a place, Sherlock thinks. He cannot stop himself from reading the people that go past: an accountant, a professional ballerina going by their stature and gait, a man who must be struggling to get much business in whatever he does, his hair is so shaggy and his suit, camel coloured, is quite creased. He takes no pride in his appearance, apparently.

Sherlock studies the man closer. He is just turning the corner of the pub, heading for the harbour, sketch pad under his arm. Artist, maybe? He is in his thirties, right handed, with a smoking problem. The way he walks tells Sherlock he has bunions. He is also in the immediate danger of being hit on the head by a flowerpot, which teeters on the edge of its sill on the first floor of the pub, ready to make its leap.

Sherlock is not aware of what he is doing before he is actually doing it, it is more of an innate reaction to danger than anything else. It seems that in no time at all he has unbuckled his seat belt and thrown open his door, running as quick as he can over to the man, and pushing him out of the way just as the flowerpot falls. The man hits the pub wall and looks to Sherlock with wide eyes. They widen further, however, when the flowerpot suddenly whooshes past him, hitting the ground with a _‘smash!’_

Everyone’s eyes are on them after the sound of smashing pottery. The man blinks, chest heaving, and Sherlock suddenly feels the weight of where he is, the attention on him, and his cheeks blaze red, and he turns back towards the car, wanting to get into the safety of its privacy as quickly as he can. Wiggins and Gregson are stood by the car, tense, hands at the weapons in their jackets. John is nowhere in sight, and preposterously Sherlock feels tears welling up in him, wanting John’s presence more than anything. He tells himself it is the adrenaline, that is making him teary. He clings to that consolation.

“Wait!” the man calls, and Sherlock can hear the clattering of his boots as he runs over to Sherlock. Sherlock turns before the man can surprise him, hand on the handle of the car door. The man reaches him with a big gust of breath, face red and sweaty. “Wait, sorry. I just wanted to say thank you.”

He holds out his hand for Sherlock, but Sherlock cannot in that moment bear the thought of touching a strangers’ flesh. The man notices Sherlock’s hesitation, and lowers his hand, but does not look put out.

“My name is Giles King. I must thank you for most probably saving my life.”

Sherlock knows he has just been invited to share his own name, but he does not. “It was no bother.” He mutters.

“Sherlock!” John calls, and Sherlock flinches. The man looks to John, who is striding over with pastry bags in hand, face creased and worried. “Everything okay?”

Sherlock nods, but tries to convey to John just how desperate he is to get away. John looks to Giles King, giving a suspicious look up and down. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Oh,” Giles says, suddenly turning to John. Strangely he had been staring at Sherlock. “Sorry, yes, my name is Giles King.” He holds his hand out for John, this time, to shake, but John does not move, still suspicious. “I was just thanking your friend here for saving my life.”  
“Saving your-what?” John says, looking between Giles and Sherlock.

“Oh, a flowerpot was just about to fall on my head, and your friend here-Sherlock, was it?- dashed out and pushed me out of the way.”  
John looks to the broken flowerpot Giles is pointing at, and then to Sherlock, eyes wide. “You did, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock nods, wishing John would get the message and get back in the car.

“Amazing.” John says, smiling as he shakes his head in disbelief. This does make Sherlock’s heart feel warm, and he lets himself get lost in John’s praise for just a moment.

“Excuse me.” Says Giles, startling Sherlock out of his wonderment. He looks to the man, not meeting his eyes but instead focussing on his lips. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but noticing that you might in need of some help.”

“Help?” John asks. Sherlock can feel Gregson and Tobias pressing in closer for his safety.

“Yes, I’m sorry to be so blunt about it but the way you hold yourself, the way you have acted and what you are wearing tell me you are suffering from prolonged trauma and PTSD.”

Sherlock is startled, and suddenly incredibly worried this man might be some crony of Moriarty’s or Moran’s, and oh lords what if they aren’t dead after all and have sent this man here-

He stops himself, telling himself that no, that cannot be true. They are dead! And everything about this man that Sherlock has deduced has pointed to him being good-hearted and honest. Sherlock is suddenly impressed by the man’s deductions.

“How the _hell_ do you know all that?” Asks John, still terribly wary.

“Oh, I’m a therapist.” Giles says, putting a hand to his chest. “Perhaps I should have led with that.”

Something about Giles’s unobtrusive manner, his bumbling words, leads Sherlock to ask, “Do you have many clients?”

He already knows Giles doesn’t, but he wants to know why. “Oh, no. No, I’m afraid my methods are a bit different, less clinical. Not a lot of people want that, but I do have all the qualifications, don’t worry about that!” He tries to joke, but then grows serious. “I think I can help you. Would you consider taking my card?”

He fumbles in his suit pocket, and pulls out a small rectangular card, handing it to Sherlock, who takes it, holding it securely in the palm of his hand. “Thank you. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“A pleasure, Sherlock.” Giles says smiling, not holding his hand out for a handshake this time, even though it is expected. This makes Sherlock like him instantly. John looks between the two men, at ease now that Sherlock is calmer, and introduces himself to Giles King. The man bids them a goodbye, telling Sherlock to ring his number if he wants to, before clambering away down to the harbour, his jacket catching in the wind and flapping wildly. Sherlock watches him go.

“What a crazy morning.” John remarks. Sherlock comes back to himself, realising where they are, how open it is, the stares of some of the people still on him. He dashes back into the car before he knows what he is doing, slamming the door behind him, heart pounding in his ears. Not long after John gets in his side, and they are cocooned in the safe and cushy interior of the car. Sherlock lets out a heaving breath.

“Let’s go back to the cottage, John, please.” He says, suddenly overwhelmed by the days events. He wants the cottage, and their enclosed garden, and he wants his books, and John by his side. The stares of the people had been overwhelming, as had been being in such a large open space. But the one thing that did not disturb Sherlock was Giles King, with his easy, almost fumbling manner. Something about him  tells Sherlock the man could actually help him, and suddenly, for the first time in weeks, Sherlock feels the tendrils of grow within him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. the description of the harbour and village is based off Port Isaac, which is beautiful.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> James Moriarty may be dead but Janine certainly isn't!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! See you soon!


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